


Constellations in your eyes

by LiberaMeDelailah



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, And they were soulmates, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26752939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiberaMeDelailah/pseuds/LiberaMeDelailah
Summary: It is commonly known that soulmates rarely find each other, for the identifying traits that they share with their other half are such that could be disguised as something that comes naturally to the person. Some people will present talent for painting, others will have a really good sense of humor, others will be proficient in things such as singing or even baking… These traits are shared among soulmates once the other half is born. Soulmates can be of a race different than your own – such as the tale of the Elven Prince whose soulmate was a Dwarf woman.Some sorceresses and druids are able to identify the bond between the destined pair, but, of course, the price to be paid for identifying your soulmate is astronomical (since it requires an enormous amount of energy), and only royalty ever goes to the expense of finding their true mate.Some lucky ones, whose destinies are strongly tied together… They will feel a calling. A guiding hand that will try to pull them towards their other half.Bonded by destiny, Beatrice Ainsworth
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 32
Kudos: 419





	Constellations in your eyes

_It is commonly known that soulmates rarely find each other, for the identifying traits that they share with their other half are such that could be disguised as something that comes naturally to the person. Some people will present talent for painting, others will have a really good sense of humor, others will be proficient in things such as singing or even baking… These traits are shared among soulmates once the other half is born. Soulmates can be of a race different than your own – such as the tale of the Elven Prince whose soulmate was a Dwarf woman._

_Some sorceresses and druids are able to identify the bond between the destined pair, but, of course, the price to be paid for identifying your soulmate is astronomical (since it requires an enormous amount of energy), and only royalty ever goes to the expense of finding their true mate._

_Some lucky ones, whose destinies are strongly tied together… They will feel a calling. A guiding hand that will try to pull them towards their other half._

_Bonded by destiny, Beatrice Ainsworth_

_Finding your soulmate is hard, and almost no one ever does, as stated by Beatrice Ainsworth; but while finding your soulmate is hard… once you see into their eyes, you will know who they are. Perhaps, you might not fall in love with your soulmate, but you surely will feel a deep connection with them. Almost as if you’ve known them all your life. A melancholy and nostalgia that will not wash away because of all the time you’ve lost by not knowing each other._

_Some people describe it as trying to cover the sun, with a single finger, others, as drowning while standing in the desert._

_Proper Courting for young Lords, Madame Janette._

_Blaviken, 1230._

Geralt didn’t remember the first song he ever hummed, nor did he remember the first song he ever sang to Roach in the loneliness of the forest, bathed away in the moonlight that filtered through the leaves.

He didn’t try to memorize the lyrics. The songs simply came to him as the wind, or like the river follows behind the sea. He went after the trail the melodies left behind for a few days, and then… the ache in his heart quieted, and he moved on, waiting for the next song to happen.

After Blaviken, the voices didn’t guide him anymore, abandoning him to his fate, leaving him cold and lonely, with only his melody to fill the quiet spaces between what was real and what was not. He felt empty, cold in a way that he hadn’t felt in years, but it was almost as if the voices were respecting his sadness, giving him space to mourn.

It was the first time he ever dared to sing something that the voices didn’t teach him; by the river where he first met Renfri, he sang a departure song in Elder. He butchered it, since his Elder wasn’t any good, but he found it fitting. The leaves around him danced, moving around in a sad goodbye to a Princess that was never meant to wear a crown.

The voices didn’t sing as they wept, the spaces between branches allowed rain to wash on top of Geralt, falling over his eyes; letting it feel as each drop caressed his cheek as tears would.

The forest, and the voices, they all cried in silence.

* * *

_Few hours away from Posada, 1235._

The sky was dark, and the night blessedly quiet, as Geralt sat on his lonely campsite with Roach eating away some grass on the other side of the bonfire. He was checking his supplies, enough potions to last him for at least ten more days with a steady income of contracts. He sighed unhappily, knowing perfectly well that the potions might last him even longer, since getting contracts was getting harder and harder with each passing day – Blaviken was hurting his reputation, _and not only Blaviken, if he was honest with himself._

Monsters were… disappearing. Slowly, yes, but surely.

 _Something was ending_ , he would think, but it wasn’t his place to comment, or to dwell too much into such thoughts. Endings and beginnings were all the same for a Witcher, after all. The cycle of the world was completely disconnected of them. The wars that would rise, the empires that would fall, all of it was of little to no consequence to Geralt and his kin. He only cared for monsters, and protecting people.

He looked up to the sky, the canopies of the trees singing a song, barely a whisper that was carried over by the winds that came from the east. The song had no words that he could recognize, but he heard its hums on the branches that crashed one against the other on the treetops – he laid on his back against Roach’s saddle, and he heard the voices and the forest as they sang to him a melody. Before he realized, he was humming along with the trees, and around him, the leaves danced to the tune of his baritone voice.

Geralt was seemingly in a trance as he hummed the song with no name, _and it was such an awful song_ , but the melody was carried by the winds and the forest, and he couldn’t bring himself to stop. He fell into meditation like that, with words on his lips that weren’t his, but he paid it no mind.

The forest was quiet and it didn’t judge him as he closed his eyes.

* * *

_Posada, 1235._

Posada was, unexpectedly, a shithole. A small village, with people that knew him by the name of Butcher. Geralt hated to be judged by actions that were taken to save the life of a child, but, he was no one to sway people’s opinions, after all, he was just a Witcher – one that had one too many potions, _but_ was running out of medication and _salt_ , and he needed salt to preserve the meat of any animal he hunted… So, that’s how he found himself here. _Not the song,_ the Witcher told himself.

Geralt begrudgingly made it towards the only tavern in High Posada; a place he didn’t even bother to learn the name of that smelled like piss and puke, and asked the tapster for a mug of cheap booze, because he had exactly ten coppers in his money bag and two of those were already wasted in alcohol to make Geralt look _approachable_. And so, he sat on a table, on the far corner, because even if he wanted to look _friendlier_ _he still was a Witcher_ ; and no one would appreciate him sitting in the middle of the tavern, anyways.

It was by pure chance then, that he heard a voice – a voice that filtered through the noise of the _village, of the tavern, of the people_ … A sound that was like the whisper of the forest that was brought by the winds of the east – the murmur that he followed the next morning. Geralt looked to the source of such sound, of the whispers that he had followed for so long that he no longer remembered _when_ they had started.

There, on the wooden floor of the tavern, with a doublet that seemed far too refined for a man that was living in _Posada,_ there, stood a youth, with eyes… Eyes blue as the sea and enchanting as the forest of Brokilon. And the song he _sang_? The song he sang was the one that called Geralt there. That led him. _And God, it was hideous,_ but how wonderful it was to just… _sing so horrendously_. The young man just didn’t know a single thing of what he was singing about, such beast just _didn’t exist,_ but he sang with such conviction it was almost endearing.

To Geralt, anyways, for the patrons didn’t care much for such things– especially given the fact that they all were throwing rotten food to the poor barding, but honestly, the young man didn’t seem to care.

Obviously, the Witcher was not stupid enough to let admiration or anything akin to that show on his face, _especially_ when the man caught a glimpse of him and came walking with what Geralt could only define as a _clumsy seductive pace._

Laying on his right hip was a longsword, with a thin edge; meant for fast movement and medium-range. The position of the sword indicated that he was left-handed, or maybe ambidextrous, given by the way his lute that rested comfortably on his back. He smelled like lavender and honey, but underneath it all was the smell of the sea and the forest. He wasn’t afraid in the least of Geralt, and the Witcher was completely taken aback.

“I like the way you just… sit away in the corner and brood.” The bard said, with a voice like silk. When his eyes met with Geralt’s, the sea met with the sand, and the world was reduced to that single moment, to the bard’s voice, to his eyes, to his _easy smile._

Geralt felt his throat constrict in a way that made him think that he might be poisoned; he felt every single muscle on his body tremble and _hurt_ and it was like he was burning alive. The bard’s eyes were fire and Geralt was in the stakes ready to be devoured by the flames. He gasped, trying to fill his lungs with air and he found himself unable to just _breathe_. He was dying… He was down by the river looking up to the surface.

A hand reached for him, and he took it, grasped it as it anchored him – and suddenly, Geralt could breathe again. In front of him, the bard was leaning against the table, he was shivering and sweating; his eyes were closed, and yet, he was holding Geralt’s hand as if the Witcher was a candlelight after a winter without fire.

He met those eyes again, the ocean dancing against the sand as amber met cornflower blue. The bard stared at him with wonderment, not a single ounce of fear in his entire demeanor. _Exhaustion_ , yes, but not fear. Around them, there were whispers, people who had recognized what had happened. Geralt needed privacy, needed to get the bard as far from prying eyes as possible; so the Witcher stood, taking the bard with him, pulling him close.

“We’ll talk in private.” Geralt whispered against the bard’s ear as they both walked out of the tavern. The young man was too stunned to respond, simply following Geralt’s directions – the Witcher had no money to pay for a room in the inn, so they walked to the outskirts of the village; setting into a small camp. Geralt looked around for wood, and made a small bonfire that would keep them warm for the rest of the night.

The two of them sat, one on each side of the fire. The silence reigned between the two; as they tried to process what had happened. Geralt was not an idiot, he had seen a few reunions of soulmates in his long, _long_ lifetime, however, he didn’t expect that he would meet _his own_. He also couldn’t believe that his soulmate was a _bard._

“So…” The other man finally spoke, his voice a hushed whisper, a little bit rusty after the strain from before “… That happened, huh? I guess I was a little _too_ good with the sword.”

Geralt hummed, thinking on his tendency to sing when he was lonely, or the whisper of the forest that would guide him; a murmur that turned out to be the bard’s voice. “I hum your songs.” Geralt said plainly, trying his best to make it so that his own disbelief wouldn’t filter through his words. “My name’s Geralt.”

“I realized when I saw you, white hair, big sword carried on the back instead of the hip… You’ve got quite a renown; you know that? Butch— “

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

“Alright, alright, not touching that. Not going to begin this with the wrong foot. My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, but dear _lords,_ don’t call me that, I go by Jaskier, the bard. At your service!” He was so bright… like the sun. And Geralt didn’t understand why Destiny would hand him such a creature, something so delicate that he could break so _easily_ as his soulmate.

Okay, maybe he was being unfair. Jaskier was not small, by any means. He was almost his size, and his shoulders were broad… the shoulders of a well-trained swordfighter. His doublet was trying to hide his figure, making him slimmer, but the bard wasn’t a thin man. But, comparing him to a Witcher… Well. It was another thing entirely. Even cruel, some would say. “What’s on your mind?”

“You’re… my soulmate.” Geralt was not a wordsmith, so, stating the obvious was the best he could do at the moment. Jaskier simply, patiently, nodded. “I’m a Witcher.”

“Yes, I’m aware. We’ve gotten over the initial introductions.”

“You’re in danger.” It came out as a threat, when it was a warning. Jaskier, however, didn’t seem scared in the least; if anything, his eyes were bright with amusement as Geralt struggled to find the right words; but by the end, the bard decided to take pity on him, standing from the place he had initially laid on the other side of the bonfire, and sitting beside Geralt.

“I’m in danger because of how public our encounter was?” Jaskier asked, and Geralt decided he was a smart man. The Witcher nodded. “I agree, it’s a liability for you. People will try to use me against you, and well, even if you don’t care, I’ll most likely die by somebody’s hand trying to reach you.” Jaskier spoke with a matter-of-factly voice; and it sent a wave of nausea through Geralt – the idea of this young man dying just because he had the misfortune of meeting the Witcher… It was a horrible prospect.

The Witcher felt guilty – after all, he could’ve been one of the hundreds of thousands of people who didn’t find their _soulmate in a lifetime_ , and yet, he came across Jaskier. “I’m sorry, your fate shouldn’t be tie— “

“Nonsense. You will _not_ be apologizing for something that isn’t even your fault. I’m not sorry, I’ll write a ballad for the _ages_ with this turn of events.” Jaskier laid a hand on Geralt’s forearm, and squeezed it. His eyes were bright, shining with the light of the bonfire that laid in front of them. Geralt seemed to get lost in the bard’s gaze for a while, so much so that he didn’t notice as Jaskier began to speak once again. After two minutes of constant chatter, the Witcher decided to simply ignore the young man until his attention was truly needed.

* * *

The night came and went with the Witcher and the bard staying side by side. It came naturally, they simply laid on the ground and stared at the sky – the stars blessed them with their brightness, and Jaskier sang a lullaby, almost as if he was soothing himself to sleep. Jaskier’s sword and Geralt’s were by their sides, close enough that Geralt could reach them without any trouble if any problem came to pass.

At some point, after Jaskier was simply humming instead of singing, Geralt turned his head to watch him. The bard’s eyes were _so_ blue, and the shine of the stars reflected in them, almost as if a constellation was hidden beneath the young man’s eyelashes – and the Witcher suddenly had the urge to ask Destiny why would it be so cruel and so kind to bless him with something so beautiful and yet so fleeting.

“You are staring.” Jaskier gazed over at him, his mouth painted with a small smile. Geralt didn’t respond, didn’t feel like it was necessary. “Am I so gorgeous I’ve taken your breath away, Witcher?”

“You are quite full of yourself, are you not?” Geralt had to say after a few seconds of silence.

The bard acted as if he was thinking for a moment, “Yes, I am. But I’ve been told that you must love yourself first, and I’m quite an adept lover.” The bard wriggled his eyebrows in what must’ve been the worst attempt at seduction Geralt has ever seen, and the Witcher smiled. A small quirk of the lips, so soft and fond it almost looked out of place in a face like Geralt’s – and Jaskier’s eyes widened when he saw such an expression, which instantly made the Witcher try to hide it with a frown… But it was too late. Jaskier, however, didn’t mention it, he simply looked over to Geralt with wonderment.

“Go to sleep bard, we’ve got to look for a contract tomorrow.”

“We, huh?” Jaskier’s grin was almost painful to see; so brilliant it was blinding, then, he yawned, and closed his eyes; his lips still upturned. “I like the sound of that.”

Geralt heard him for a while after that, the way he was breathing, until he was sure the bard was truly asleep; then, he stared at the young man with curiosity and interest… And guilt. 

Guilt, because destiny had chosen for him a man such as Geralt – a man who couldn’t provide for him any sort of comfort, or even simple stability. The Witcher was, after all, someone condemned to the Path, always meant to walk through it, until he got slow and died at the grasp of a beast – _which he hoped would be merciful enough to make his passing fast._ The bard didn’t deserve a companion such as he was, someone who could outlive him, or die the next day…

But he couldn’t abandon Jaskier. The way they’ve found one another was too public, people had _seen_ Jaskier and Geralt. He couldn’t leave him behind, in the dangers that… that men would use him to try and get _to_ Geralt.

Jaskier snored, yanking the Witcher out of his mind for a second. The bard’s eyelashes were long, and on his cheeks a few freckles laid. His lips were thin, and he looked just so _young,_ and so unaware of the people and their dangers. Geralt wanted to cherish that innocence, to bathe on it. The world would be cruel to Jaskier, they would try to make him break and bent when he had done nothing to deserve the hatred; and Geralt loathed it. He loathed that he couldn’t do _anything_ about it; except try to shield the bard from the abuse.

The Witcher took off his leather glove, and with a trembling hand, he caressed Jaskier’s cheekbone. The young man didn’t wake, simply turning his face towards the contact, mumbling some incoherent things. _He talks even in his sleep_.

“I’ll keep you safe.” Geralt whispered.

The wind through the canopies of the trees seemed to reply in a murmured voice, _I know._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> This was inspired by a conversation in Witcher discord and I had a lot of fun writing it!


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